Watching Sara
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: Every once in a while, I catch a particularly enticing snapshot of her, displayed as if for my personal aesthetic pleasure." Grissom reminisces on years of watching Sara. She gives him something else to observe. Read and review! Chapter 5 now available!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: There are no spoilers for this story, and so it can really be set whenever you want it to be...prior to whenever it is that you think Sara and Grissom became an official couple. Do I think this would really happen? Hmm. Not necessarily; Sara can seem a bit reticent sexually on the show, although I always thought that was a bit of a front (or was that hoped?). Do I think Grissom thought these things while he watched Sara over the years? Oh, yeah. You bet. I like to think that this could be a "just before" story, set months or weeks or days--or even hours--before our favorite couple finally gives in to their baser, sweeter impulses. Because, can't you just imagine what they do _after_ breakfast? To quote an annoying but in this case appropriate phrase: yum-o. Oh, and if you want me to figure out what they do after breakfast, let me know. I could be convinced to write a second chapter...

Disclaimer: Grissom and Sara belong to Tony and the kids at CBS; Yum-O belongs to Rachael freakin' Ray. I belong to William Petersen, and someday I'll tell him so.

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if she notices me watching her. I can't really help it—she's like an addictive living painting, always captured in a beautiful or fascinating light, always unconsciously striking a pose that cries out for further study and appreciation. Her dark hair, whether falling in soft curls or in angular curtains around her perfectly oval face, catches the glint of whatever light she's in and casts it around the room, be it morgue or diner or the living room of her apartment. Her eyes can be a hundred shades of brown—such a simple, ugly word for the complicated colors that dress the windows to her soul—sometimes holding flecks of gold or smudges of green, sometimes burning a bright, hot hazel and or sinking into the shadows of an angry or impassioned chocolate. Her lips frame a wide and expressive mouth, painted in delicate brushstrokes of antique rose without the aid of cosmetics, and her smiles can range from slight to wry to brilliant, and each captivates me before releasing me to relish the joys of re-attainment.

And that's just above the neck.

I try to be respectful and focus mostly on her face—something a younger man driven by the blood rushing south to take up residence might not understand—but there are days when she makes it difficult, and I'm not including the days when she makes it impossible. When she falls asleep in the break room, head gently pillowed on her folded arms, the limpness to her long and slender limbs reminds me of a child; when she wakes up and stretches, breasts arching and back bending and legs splaying slightly as she tightens all the muscles in her body and then releases them, I am reminded of something very, very different. Something it has been a few years since I have experienced, and which I find myself unable to contemplate again without her image sliding unexpectedly into the frame of my own imaginary erotic film.

I love her in jeans—something about the fabric of denim is oddly appealing to me, at once smooth and rough, heavy and clinging—and I love her in black, because it is uniquely effective in bringing out the luminescence of her skin, the darkness of her eyes, the highlighted espresso of her hair. She never wears heels, probably because in her bare feet she is as tall as Nick or I, and taller than Catherine. But when I am alone—which is almost always, when I am not at the lab—I sometimes picture her in heels, something slim and black with straps lacing from her slender ankles all the way up her calves, and I would be lying if I said the image was unpleasant. Or that it didn't make me want to press her up against a wall and see if her skin tastes as delicious as it smells.

Every once in a while, I catch a particularly enticing snapshot of her, displayed as if for my personal aesthetic pleasure: she is striding across an arid Nevada front lawn, pale blue blouse clinging slightly to her back in the heat, the hem of her khakis riding up slightly to reveal the sunburst tattoo over the front of her left leg, just above her foot. My brain wanders briefly to the lovely and warming thought of running the tip of my tongue over every line of ink pressed into her pale skin.

Or: she stoops to take a photograph of a piece of red silk dangling from the thorny outcropping of a bush, and the thin strap of her tank top slides down one perfect shoulder to loop around a defined upper arm, leaving an unobstructed line of freckled flesh from the pulse point of her neck to the edge of her collarbone. I imagine pressing my lips to every inch of that skin until she says my name, my real name, which Catherine and Brass and even Robbins use carelessly and never, ever crosses her lips.

Also: she is lying on her back on a small wooden board, face buried beneath the body of a car, endless legs and flat abdomen and small but perfect breasts covered by navy cotton, and at the sound of my voice she scoots out from beneath the tons of steel, dark hair pulled back with strands curling around her cheekbones and jaw, and the zipper on the jumpsuit is down just far enough that I know she has nothing on beneath it, at least from the waist up. Not unusual, to protect one's street clothing from the dirt and fluids the examination of a vehicle can offer up as gifts, but I cannot erase the image of sliding that zipper down and taking advantage of everything she will offer to me in the backseat or on the hood of that vehicle, evidence be damned.

This is how I know that watching Sara has changed me. When I met her, she was twenty-five, all eager questions and vibrant eyes, and I found her cute and bright and interesting. She was a student who became a friend, and if I pretended I did not see the way she watched _me_, I can hardly be blamed. Distance and age seemed impossible barriers, and sometimes fantasy is better than reality. Better to let her think of me as the handsome professor that got away than as the aging entomologist who would not stop calling her in the middle of the night to discuss insects and dead bodies. Yet somehow, because of our friendship, I was certain I had become the latter.

When I asked her to come to Vegas, and she agreed and then stayed, my eyes would stray to her occasionally, but no more than Catherine or Terri or any other attractive woman who crossed my path and made her presence known. I was not particularly interested in dating, or even always in sex—solitude had made me patient, accustomed to silence, set in my ways; accommodating someone else's belongings or lifestyle or even presence in my bed upon waking was not always bearable. But over time, I began to realize that she was always there. More than Catherine, even—one of my oldest friends in the lab. She was slipping into my office to present her latest findings, or wandering the ghostly blue-lit halls with a stack of files; she was showing up at my crime scenes with a camera and a ready smile, or accepting my assignment slips with an accidental brush of her finger against my wrist. Her eyes would fix on mine with an enigmatic gaze or a wry quirk of her eyebrow to rival my most enigmatic and wry expressions, and the sense of kindred spirit would wash over me in a tingle of overwrought nerve cells on the surface of my skin.

But for every moment I was made painfully aware of her presence, there was a corresponding ache at the realization of her absence; for every expression and movement and turn of phrase that screamed of similarity, there was a tear or a moment of defiance or an unexpected sentence that alienated me and spoke to how little I knew her. The day came when I was distracted from a witness's statement by the sensation of her body heat as she stood close behind me…the moment came when I almost overlooked a key piece of evidence because some sarcastic double entendre exited her lips and shot straight to my groin…the second came when I stopped caring about destruction of fingerprints or gunshot residue or blood evidence because there was an opportunity to kiss her, touch her, take her—and I knew. Watching Sara had changed me.

* * *

Today, I know she knows that I'm watching her, and I've decided not to care. We are in the locker room, she and I and Nick and Warrick, and shift has finally ended. The younger men are carelessly stripping off their work-weary shirts—Warrick buttoning a black silk shirt over a white tank, Nick trading a pale blue tee shirt for a dark green—and Sara could be watching this unconscious display of flesh, but instead her eyes are on me, where I am standing, locker open, my blue forensics coat being traded for a black leather one the team has probably seen me in infrequently enough to count the instances on one hand. It is actually a favorite jacket, given to me years ago by a woman whose name I have not forgotten but whose embraces were entirely forgettable, its affectionate preference in my off-duty wardrobe due to my secret love of the smell of leather and my less secret love of black, and not at all to the hazy memory of its giver. I can almost feel the trail of her eyes burning into my skin…she starts at my temples, sliding down my face until she takes in the beard I have grown oddly fond of, then my shoulders, torso, and down to parts of me I never imagined until a few years ago she would actually turn her gaze to. I know what she sees—dark red polo, black slacks, black leather shoes, and now the addition of a rarely seen and highly prized piece of dressy clothing. I wonder if she thinks I have a date. I, of course, do not.

The sensation of her eyes on me is too much to resist, and while our coworkers banter away about something masculine and social and entirely out of my realm of interest, I return her speculative stare. She is especially lovely today; the rich purple of her silk blouse, its short sleeves a comment on "winter" in Las Vegas, is almost as complimentary to her skin and eyes as black, which she has kindly wrapped around her long legs in form-fitting, wide-hemmed pants. A black-ribboned choker with an amethyst set in silver nestles in the hollow of her throat, and I briefly contemplate tearing it off and replacing it with my lips, a far more worshipful piece to rest against her skin. She lifts one hand and slides it into her thick hair, shaking it out, and I realize we have been standing here for well over a minute, simply looking at each other. Nick and Warrick have fallen silent, and their eyes are turned to us in confusion.

"Uh, Gris?" Warrick says, as Nick calls over him, "Hey, Sar?" We turn; she smiles and I arch a brow.

"Is everything all right?" Nick asks finally, his eyes darting back and forth between us. "You guys were staring daggers into each other for a minute there."

Sara smiles sweetly. "Everything's great. Anyone interested in breakfast?"

Both men shake their heads, offering up excuses I don't even pretend to pay attention to. I close my locker firmly and look up at her again. "Breakfast sounds good."

She does not bother to hide the pleasure on her face, and we part ways with Nick and Warrick in the parking lot. She slides into the passenger side of my SUV easily, as if we have done this a hundred times. I climb in beside her, turning the key in the engine, turning my face to her. She is studying me openly, and her dark eyes look mischievous, secretive, and slightly haunted.

"Where to?" I ask, letting my voice take on the faint accent of a Chicago cabbie, and she smiles.

"Anywhere," she replies, and I shift the car into gear and drive.

There is a small restaurant on the outskirts of Henderson that I want to take her to. It is excessively out of the way, but the food is exceptional, and I have never taken a woman there before. She might never know it, but this excursion will be a date in the recesses of my brain, something to hold me over during the endless nights when I sleep alone, dreaming of her.

We are on the highway, desert rolling by in endless waves of dry and dusty sand, when I catch a movement from her out of the corner of my eye. She has shifted her seat back as far as it will go, stretching out her long legs, and tilted it back. Her eyes are shrouded with sunglasses that are slightly purple. But what catches my attention so thoroughly that I almost steer us into the wrong lane is the idle movement of her fingers on her thigh, tracing circles and mindless patterns on the black fabric. She sighs softly, a faint sound accompanying the release of air. I force my eyes back to the road, grateful that at 8 am in the middle of nowhere, we are relatively alone.

"Do you like this color on me?" she asks. Her voice is low and sultry, and I am as badly startled by its sensual sound as by her words. I flick my gaze over to her, my own eyes hidden behind dark lenses. She is fingering the wine-colored silk of her shirt with the hand that is not busy inscribing secret messages on her thigh. I clear my throat.

"It's a good color," I allow. We drive in silence for a minute or two, and then peripheral movement distracts me once more. I almost slam on the brakes. She has unbuttoned the blouse over her pale skin and what I can now see is a bright blue lace bra. Her fingers are trailing over her stomach, and she is smiling softly as she stares out through the windshield, as if this undressing beside me is the most ordinary thing in the world.

"What are you doing?" I choke out, dragging my eyes back to the road. Still empty. She laughs lightly.

"Letting you watch," she purrs, and things low in my body tighten. "It's what you like to do, isn't it?"

I hear the snick of a clasp being undone, and then the rasp of a zipper. My breath is caught in my throat. I cannot drive and let her do—whatever it is she is planning to do. I will lose my mind. With an abrupt wrench of the wheel, I jerk the SUV over to the side of the road and throw it into park, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. I slowly turn to Sara.

She has one slender hand lost between her legs, hidden from me by her pants. Her hips are rocking slightly, however, and it is no mystery to me what she is doing. Her other hand is teasing one nipple over the lace of her bra, and her lips are parted, releasing soft pants into the hot air. Her sunglasses still hide her eyes enough that I cannot read their expression, but they are not turned to me anyway. They are still staring out through the glass of the windshield, taking in the desert landscape as she pleasures herself beside me in my car.

I want to reach for her, to replace her hands with my own, but she has had faith in my reticence, and it is well-placed. I am paralyzed as I watch her, her hips arching higher off the seat as she moans softly, her fingers pulling down the lace of her bra over one perfect breast to reveal it to me, and to her restless hand.

My mouth is dry, my eyes tight, and my body painfully aroused. Everything feels a bit hazy around the edges, as if this is another one of my rare but powerful dreams of her. I know that I should start driving again, that I should stop her with a sharp command, but the battle between what I should do and what I want to do leaves me effectively helpless. I watch Sara as her thighs tighten around her hand, as her back arches, and I know she is very close. I move at last, reaching over to pluck her sunglasses from her face and toss them to the floor, to turn her face towards mine with firm fingers under her chin. She opens her eyes, and their darkness collides with my gaze just as she climaxes, a long moan escaping her mouth.

I watch Sara come.

When she comes down, when her mindless sounds quiet, she gently pulls away from the hand I still have beneath her jaw, to hold her stare to my own. She has not cried out my name in the throes of orgasm, or confessed an undying love. She has merely noticed my voyeurism and forced it to the next level, taking all the power with her. I realize I am shaking. She calmly zips up her pants and fastens the clasp, tugs her bra up over her breasts, re-buttons her shirt. She looks faintly flushed, incandescent, and not the least bit ashamed.

"God, I'm starved," she says in a faintly throaty voice. "Where is this place, anyway?"

Taking my cue, I throw the SUV into drive and pull back out onto the highway, trying to ignore the throbbing of my body insisting that I take her home instead of to breakfast. "We're almost there," I tell her quietly, even though it will be another twenty minutes. She nods, content with my answer, and leans her head back and closes her eyes, her breath slowing and easing. Within moments, she is asleep. From the corner of my eyes, I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling evenly, her hands resting limply by her sides, one strand of hair drifting down over her cheek. She is beautiful.

I continue to drive.

FIN


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: What's that? Something other than a one-shot from Bella? *readers faint at their computer screens* But seriously, this one needed more. I know it did. So here is chapter two...and yes, the ending means I will have to write at least one more chapter. I know this. I am prepared...

This chapter is from Sara's point of view, and revisits the events in the second half of the first chapter. And you're thinking, "WHY?!? I already know what happened!" Because I wanted Sara to be able to give her reasons for doing something that may have seemed a little (or entirely) out of character. Will it make you say, oh, yeah, that's why all nice girls touch themselves in their boss's cars? Probably not. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Disclaimer: The usual. And by that, I mean, the endless weeping into my pillow over lack of ownership rights.

* * *

He thinks I am asleep. Years in foster care teach you how to pretend a lot of things. Years as an adult woman teach you how to fake things, too, but I am ashamed and terrified and just a tiny bit exhilarated to admit that I have not faked anything besides sleep in the last twenty minutes.

I would love to say that touching myself in front of my boss in his SUV on the way to breakfast was inspired by alcohol, or a dare from Greg, or genetically-inescapable insanity. I suppose it _could_ be the latter, but I think it is much simpler than that.

I am so unbelievably, desperately frustrated.

Grissom thinks he is subtle. He imagines I am oblivious most of the time to his long studies of me. But the truth is that I feel his eyes on me every single time. I have attuned myself to the nuances of his voice, the micro-expressions of tightening eyes, slightly pursing lips, twitching eyebrows. But more than that, I am completely attuned to what it feels like when his eyes are roaming my body, dancing over my hair, flitting over my face.

When he watches me when we are alone, this one particular chill starts at the base of my spine and crawls its slow and erotic way along the energy channels of my body, setting them spinning and whirling out of control. My body heats from the tingling awareness, and I usually have to fight to control my breathing before turning to toss him a questioning glance, or a wry smile, or no expression at all.

When he watches me when we're with other people, it is even more affecting, and even harder to control myself. Why? Because I know that he knows better, and he cannot resist anyway. If we are at a crime scene with Greg and Warrick and he still can't keep himself from raking those criminally blue eyes over my body, I certainly can't be blamed for having a hard time not launching myself across the room and finding the nearest closet…or couch…or tile floor.

Something happens to you when you desire someone desperately for years upon unrequited years. Actually, a lot of things happen to you, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all at once, in a frightening rush.

Mind-numbing depression: this comes unexpectedly, like right after he turns you down for dinner.

The frantic search for a replacement: someone, anyone, to fuck him out of your head. This comes at all the wrong times and in all the wrong places and never works, not even a little bit.

The bitter, all-consuming anger: this makes you say things like _fine_ and _see you around_ and _that's a stupid reason._ If you're lucky, he realizes you're angry and tries to make everything better. If you're me, he doesn't.

The aching loneliness: this happens every time you go to bed alone, every time you wake up alone, every time you orgasm alone. For me, that would be about every goddamn day.

And then there is the crazy. This happens when you realize that the object of your desire is watching you, watches you every day, at every crime scene, in every lab of your workplace, in every interrogation room, at every meal you share together. This happens when you know, not just suspect, that he desires you just as badly as you want him, and he would rather stare at you from a distance than touch you.

So, my actions were not alcohol-induced or Greg-inspired. I was just tired of being watched and being left alone. Two could play at his game. I thought I could really give him something to look at.

I expected him to stop me, I really did. I was simply trying to push his buttons. However, when he did absolutely nothing as I started undoing mine, I realized something unbelievable was happening. I was unbuttoning my shirt on this hot, arid day in the middle of nowhere in his SUV while we went to breakfast together after work and he really was not going to stop me.

So I started watching him.

His face as I trace circles on my thigh: slightly flushed, trying to ignore me. His face when he sees that I have unbuttoned my shirt: completely flushed, shocked, and if I were going to guess, aroused. And that is even more erotic than I had ever imagined it could be.

"What are you doing?" he asks me finally. His voice sounds a little hoarse, as if he is having trouble breathing. I focus my eyes out the windshield, out into the desert, because if I look at him, I will stop. I will come back to reality and how completely insane this all is, and I am not ready for reality again. I force a little laugh.

"Letting you watch," I say in a low voice, trying to hide the tremble bubbling up. "It's what you like to do, isn't it?"

And then I am undoing my pants beside Gil Grissom in his company-issued Denali. I slide my right hand into my panties and cover my breast with the left one because, frankly, if I don't give them both something to do right now, they are just going to start shaking uncontrollably. I am so terrified, and so aroused. Who knew that doing something no normal person would ever do could be so erotic?

His face as he whips the vehicle over to the side of the road and slams it into park: a little pale, jaw clenched, eyes very, very tight. He could chew me out within an inch of my life or throw me in the backseat and take me. I imagine the two choices are running about neck and neck for him right now, but another one is probably winning out: do absolutely nothing. Thinking about him taking me right here on the side of the road, however, is what has my hips rocking up into my fingers and my nipples tightening under my bra.

I want him to touch me. I know he never will.

So I forget how absolutely inappropriate and crazy this is and lose myself in the fantasy of Grissom, made so much more intense by the fact that I can smell him, feel his body heat, hear the quickened rasp of his breathing. I keep my gaze averted from him, even close my eyes at one point as the sensations I am creating become overwhelming, but just as my body tightens on the brink of orgasm, he surges across the seat and yanks my sunglasses from my face. His fingers curl under my chin and draw my eyes to him.

I am watching him watching me.

And oh, god, his eyes are so dark blue and so intense and I had no idea this would actually arouse him so much because he was supposed to _stop_ me and he is looking at me as if I am the only person he has ever really seen and oh god, oh god, oh god…

When I finally come back to myself, I pull away from his hand. Everything is a little too raw and exposed right now. But…but. His face as I came in front of him for the first time (only time, only time, only time): priceless.

There is only one thing to do. I calmly, steadily redress myself, putting everything in order, careful to control the face I know he is watching. I hide my fear, my embarrassment, and my shock at my own completely unexpected actions. I feel amazing, and completely terrified.

"God, I'm starved," I offer. "Where is this place, anyway?"

He tells me we are almost there and starts driving again. I lean my head back against the seat, relaxing into it, slowing and evening out my breathing. Within minutes, it sounds like I am asleep. I'm not.

My eyes are ever so slightly slitted, and in my excellent periphery I am watching him. My heart skips about twelve beats when I see that he is, in fact, visibly aroused. Part of me wants to jump around like a kid and point proudly: I did that! Part of me wonder what, exactly, the repercussions are of turning on Grissom in the middle of the desert while he is driving. And part of me, the same crazy, desperate, unbelievably frustrated part that inspired me to masturbate in his car, wants to lean over and take care of that arousal in every delightful way that has ever flitted through my brain on lonely, heated nights.

I do nothing. I lay back, and pretend to sleep, and watch him.

However unexpected my actions, however paralyzed he might feel by them, the next move is his.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Chapter three! Once again from Grissom's point of view; thus, it picks up where chapter one left off, since chapter two was a summation of events from chapter one from Sara's point of view. Please don't hate me when you reach the end...chapter four (again from Sara's POV) is in the works _right now_. And to all those who have mused that this is one of my (hopefully rare) OOC stories...I'm not sure if I should apologize or just go with it. I had hoped chapter two would explain why Sara went a little wacko and did the bad touch in a Denali, but if not, then let it be OOC. I can live with that...right? (I'll write something spot on soon...when I start watching season eight on DVD and remind myself what WP sounds like without an Irish brogue.)

Disclaimers: You know they belong to someone else. I know they belong to someone else. We all wish they had jillions of clones, so we could share.

* * *

I continue to drive.

My mind is whirling. All thoughts of Sara up to this point—thick curls, wide dark eyes, endless legs, brilliant mind—vanish in the wake of what I have witnessed. Who is this passionate, unpredictable woman beside me? How many years have I been watching Sara without truly seeing her?

I cannot stand it any longer. I yank the wheel of the SUV sharply to the left and head back in the opposite direction, toward the city. The violence of our redirection makes Sara's eyes fly open, and I can feel her gaze on me.

"Grissom?"

"Hmm?" I dare not form more than a few syllables, or I might find myself saying entirely too much.

"Is there a reason we're no longer heading for pancakes?"

"Not hungry." I press my foot to the accelerator. God, I'm a liar. I glance at my speedometer, deciding that I can live with ten miles over the limit. If a police officer even bothers to pull us over, I'm fairly certain I can convince him that this is an emergency. I have to reach the safety of my own home before I do something I'll regret.

The gentle touch of Sara's hand on my knee nearly elicits a groan as I try to keep my focus on the road instead of on the length of her body stretched out in the seat beside me, or the lovely turquoise of the lingerie she revealed to me moments ago. I have dated and been intimate with many women in my life, but the heat spreading from the slightest touch of her hand is unfamiliar and almost frightening. I have touched her a hundred times. When did her skin become my craving?

Cars, streets, houses fly by, and Sara's hand creeps slowly and suggestively up my thigh. She cannot be missing the effects of her performance or her touch on me, but in stark contrast with her bold actions moments ago, she has yet to do anything that irrevocably crosses again that invisible line I established—when? When I first turned her down for a dinner date? When I spent the night with Heather? When I told her that it did not matter that she was seeing Hank? Somewhere, sometime, I put down the first brick in the wall she is slowly but surely scaling, and I find myself fearing and anticipating in equal measure the consequences of us finally being on the same side of it.

"Grissom." Her soft voice interrupts my delirious thoughts, my futile attempts to distract myself from the fingers now trailing in circles over my thigh.

"Yes?" Monosyllables are good.

"Where are you taking me?"

_Everywhere._ "I thought it might be best if I took you home."

"I can't make pancakes."

I swallow as her fingers inch higher. "Neither can I. Maybe I'll take a rain check on breakfast?"

"Not a problem." Her voice is so cool, I almost find myself wondering if I imagined her shirt unbuttoned, her fingers beneath the dark fabric of her pants, the arch of her hips, the look in her eyes as she—

I pull onto her street, breathless.

"Come in for a moment," Sara says easily, as I slide the gearshift into park. I turn to her for the first time since watching her climax beside me, and our eyes collide, crash and burn. I suck in some much needed air.

"Sara…" Why is it all of our most difficult conversations begin with my hesitant declaration of her name? I try again. "I really think it would be best to try this again. Some other time."

"And what 'this' would you be referring to?" she inquires, lazily brushing the side of her hand against the one part of my body that is opposed to my attempts to leave. I stifle a groan and the urge to slam my eyes shut and arch into that hand. "Breakfast? Or everything else?"

"Sara, please." I can't decide what it is I am begging for.

"Come in," she commands, and I give in and obey.

I don't remember there being this many stairs, or the hallway being this long. The door is familiar, as is the yellow leather couch and the scent of lavender lingering like a ghost in the air. Sara lets me close the door, allows me to cross hesitantly to her couch and stand in front of it, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets and my face betraying the dichotomy of desire I am currently experiencing. She hovers near the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter, her dark eyes gazing at the floor.

"Why?" I murmur finally, desperate for an answer—something to explain the strange behavior she has been exhibiting all morning. She lifts her face, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I've always been a bit of an exhibitionist," she says softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her blouse. My body tightens, and I sink onto the couch behind me. "Besides," she adds, a playful tone creeping into her voice, "I wasn't really interested in sharing a meal."

"Just breakfast, or does that go for any meal?" I know our conversation is drifting toward the inane, but I am terrified for the talking to stop.

She laughs lightly. "When I asked you to dinner two years ago, I wasn't really interested in the meal then, either." She crosses the room and curls up in the corner of the couch, beside me but not really next to me, close enough to touch, but not touching. I angle my body to face her and lean back, trying to relax. I can do this. I can talk about our—complicated relationship.

"I know you were upset by my decision," I begin, but she lifts a slender hand to stem the flow of what are sure to be awkward words.

"I was," she agrees gently. "But it's okay. That was a long time ago."

I sigh, unable to help myself. "My feelings haven't changed, Sara."

She grins, her smile so full and beautiful that I am almost stunned. "I know."

She leans forward and kisses me.

Everything becomes a little hazy and very warm as Sara's lips brush against mine, gently at first, then a little more eagerly as she shifts closer to me. I start to pull back, but her hand slides around my neck to pull me closer, and I find myself lost in the way her kiss commandeers all of my senses at once: the softness of her mouth, the taste of mint and coffee on her tongue, the scent of lavender and honeysuckle on her hair and skin, the faint sound of her stifling back a moan, the sight of her eyelashes caressing her cheeks as she urges my lips apart with hers. Watching Sara is intoxicating; experiencing her is overwhelming.

I draw back at last, gasping for breath, my hands rough on her shoulders, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer into my body. Her cheeks are beautifully flushed, and the hand not wound around my neck is once again tracing circles on my thigh. I catch her wrist to pull her hand away and find myself lifting it to my lips. Her eyes flutter closed as I kiss the back of her hand, and then the palm.

"I always knew you felt like this," she murmurs, and I let her hand fall.

"Like what?" I can feel my chest tightening. Everything is moving quickly and tumbling rapidly out of my control. The certainty in her eyes is coupled with a desire that I am desperately trying to quash within myself, and I am afraid that whatever line it is we have crossed may be destroying everything.

"Grissom." Sara's voice is chiding and laced with a tremble of insecurity. I pull further away from her, beginning to rise to my feet. As a flash of anger crosses her face, I brace myself. But it is as if she is unwilling to fight me on this any longer. Her hands drop limply to her sides, and she shrugs.

"Rain check, then?" I ask, cursing the tremble in my voice, and she nods silently. I shove my hands back into my jacket and hurry from the apartment.

* * *

TBC...promise.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Chapter four! Once again from Sara's POV, this chapter picks up where the last one left off, instead of revisiting the previous chapter's events from the opposite perspective (I thought you all might kill me if it always took two chapters to progress the story!). And yes, apparently there will be more. There is some nummy goodness in your future.

Disclaimer: I am a bad girl, so I doubt Santa will give me CSI for Christmas. Oh, well.

* * *

I officially hate the concept of a rain check.

I finally kiss Gil Grissom, really kiss him, and he decides to take a rain check. On what? Breakfast? Kissing me? _Life_?

As he rushes from my apartment, the apathy I have affected seeps from my limbs and brain, replaced by frustrated anger. There really are only so many times a woman can throw herself at someone before things become ridiculous and pathetic. I decide, despite this truth, that waiting for him to make the next move is just not an option, because Grissom doesn't move. He watches, and waits.

I'm done waiting.

Before I can stop to think my actions completely through, I am on my feet and running after him, catching him at the end of the hall just before he starts down the stairs. He is clearly startled by my hand landing roughly on his shoulder, by my flushed and frantic expression. I fix him with my best glare, about to launch into an argument, when it hits me.

Grissom did not wind up in my apartment, kissing me, because I debated him into it. He did it because I finally took some action, and he couldn't resist.

So I close my mouth and drop to my knees. Enough talking. Apparently, we need more action.

His eyes are wider than I have ever seen them as I fumble with the button on his dark pants. I honestly think for a moment that he might be on the verge of passing out. I flash him my most mischievous grin and cock my head slightly as the rasp of his zipper almost echoes in the empty hallway. His hand flies down to mine, stilling it just before I find out what—if anything—my more-than-a-boss wears under a nice pair of black dress pants.

"What are you doing?" He is breathless, shocked, and—since this is exactly what he asked me a half hour ago in his SUV—repetitive. Has he really never had a woman do this before?

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I respond, tugging my fingers away from his. He snatches them back again before I have a chance to undress him in a public area of my apartment building. Disappointing, but probably not unwise.

"You can't do this here, Sara."

"Then you'd better come back inside." I slowly rise, keeping my hand in place over his zipper. Even with my fingers wrapped in his, I can feel the effect I'm having on him, and it only increases my determination to not let him run away this time. "Because I have every intention of doing…this."

"Do I have any say in the matter?" He is almost verging on petulant, and I stifle a grin.

"Of course you do. I think you're making your feelings known." I press my palm against his erection and watch his pupils dilate. The feeling of power is delicious.

He hisses out my name and allows me to tug him back to my apartment by our joined hands. Once inside, we stand and stare awkwardly at one another, hands still entwined, until I start to kneel again, just to keep from losing our erotic momentum. He keeps me upright by shifting his hand to encircle my wrist and pulls me close.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think there's a general order to these things," he murmurs. I study his face. It is a mixture of longing, resignation, humor and fear, and I take another step closer, determined to eliminate any confusing feelings until only desire for me remains.

"There is, but sometimes you have to skip a few steps when there's convincing to be done," I reply gently. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"If it means so much to you…" he says slowly, amusement dancing in his eyes, "…I suppose I could demand payment on that rain check. Now."

Our first kiss was hesitant and exploratory. But the way Grissom takes my mouth now is as different from that kiss as kittens are from exploding grenades. I am lost in the heat and intensity of his tongue parting my lips, his hands cradling the small of my back and the back of my neck, and the well-muscled thigh gently nudging its way between my own. There is no doubt that he has kissed before, and learned how to do so well. I am torn between the desire to kill every woman he's ever kissed and the feeling that I should send them thank-you notes.

I find myself the one in shock when I feel his deft fingers undoing the buttons of my silk blouse, starting at the bottom and inching closer to my breasts with each tiny button. I gasp, arching into him a little, when his fingers brush against the sensitive, almost ticklish skin of my stomach. I feel him smile against my mouth.

"Grissom—" I say suddenly, pushing him back a little, with my hands on his shoulders. He fixes lust-darkened blue eyes on me, and immediately all my hesitation and fear vanishes in the wake of his expression. He wants me. I always suspected it, even thought I knew it, but now neither one of us can deny it. What this means for work, for the rest of the team—for the rest of our lives—I cannot begin to contemplate, and in this moment, I cannot make it matter. What I have longed for, for more years than I can recall, is finally standing in front of me, wanting me back. Forget thinking things through. I just want to _move._

He has his head tilted in that familiar way, the way that asks a question and patiently waits for the answer all in one simple gesture, and I simply shrug, letting everything go. With slightly shaking hands, I draw him back into my body, pressing my lips to his and pushing the black leather jacket from his shoulders. He kisses me again, exploding grenade-style, and we make quick work of buttons and shirts and, in my case, one very delicately laced bright blue bra.

The feel of his slightly roughened fingers on my breasts is nearly enough to send me over the edge, but I cling to his shoulders like a drowning woman and pant into his neck as he brushes his thumbs over my nipples, lightly pinching them before soothing them again with his thumb. The way he touches me now is the perfect example of Grissom as he is with me in every way: fierce one moment, gentle the next, and always just a little unexpected and unpredictable. I try to distract myself from the warmth of his hands and the softness of his lips dancing along my collarbone by undoing the belt on his pants, but he stills my hands and draws them behind my back, encasing both of my wrists in one of his larger hands. He effectively pins me and arches my breasts for even more thorough attention, which he begins to lavish with his mouth.

"Gris…" I choke out, more aroused than I had believed possible by the gentle, unthreatening restraint of his hands and the careful, perfect way he is circling my nipples with his tongue. He glances up at me, never lifting his mouth, just raising beautiful blue eyes to my face, and I am undone. I nearly collapse into him, moaning out his name, supported through my climax by his arm gently wound around my waist and the clinging of my fingers to his shoulders, his hand immediately releasing mine when he senses me tumbling over the edge.

When I open my eyes, hazy and breathless, he is studying me with a look of such intense satisfaction that I am almost tempted to smack him. It is only the desire mingling with the satisfaction that makes me smile instead of punching him lightly in the shoulder. He kisses me softly, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, and whispers against my mouth: "One."

"What?" I demand, pulling back. He grins.

"I have a little bet with myself," he confesses, and my eyes fly open wide.

"About—" I make a vague gesture and he laughs, actually laughs aloud.

"Yes. About that."

"And how long have you had this bet, exactly?"

Grissom's eyes are twinkling. "About…five years."

I flush, starting to pull away, but he tightens the arm still around my waist. "Are you upset that I made a bet with myself about how much pleasure I could bring you in a single evening?"

"I—no," I say, feeling confused. "Yes. Maybe. Why would you make that bet, when you wouldn't even go out to dinner with me?"

He shrugged, a shadow passing over his face. "I said no, Sara. I didn't say I didn't want to say yes."

Something in me breaks a little at this confession, and I fly at him, kissing him frantically, my fingers swift and merciless at his belt buckle, his buttons and zippers, and everything keeping me from the body of the man I might very well be hopelessly in love with. He responds with equal fervor, until we are both naked and tumbling onto my couch, the bedroom silently deemed to be entirely too far away. My last thought as we fall is—I guess I'm not the only unpredictable one.

* * *

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Oh, my patient friends! A sprained ankle, the advent of a cold, and family drama have kept me away from the GSR writing for far too long. (Well, that, and the utterly distracting men of _House, M.D._ Try having a dream with Hugh Laurie, Robert Sean Leonard, _and_ William Petersen in it, and see if _you_ can accomplish anything the next day! Teehee.) But here is chapter five, once again from Grissom's point of view. At readers' request, we revisit "bet-with-myself" land and learn its subtle and charming nuances. Enjoy!

* * *

I have no idea why I told Sara about the silly, private little bet I made with myself late one night, thinking of her. I remember exactly which night it was. We had stayed up the night before watching a pig decay in an attempt to solve the Kaye Shelton case. She had brought me a blanket, and a thermos of coffee, and herself—which warmed me far more than the other two. Still swimming across my weary brain was the memory of her words: _you want to sleep with me?_ And the next night, when I finally tumbled into bed and sought out a few hours of sleep, I found it elusive. All I could hear, over and over again, was the echo of her words.

Finally, I succumbed to the desire pulsing through my body and thought of her, hand wrapping around myself in a familiar fashion, hips arching up from the bed, my brain and body aching at the thought of her being beside me, above me, beneath me—anything. It was so erotic and intense that I tried to stave off my own orgasm with imaginary thoughts of everything I wanted to do, to Sara and with her, and distracted myself from climax by counting hers, even though they were entirely in my mind. That night, she only made it to two before I came, crying out her name into my pillow.

And every time I gave in to thoughts of her during the long, lonely nights—which I tried to keep as infrequent as possible—I played this game with myself, torturing my body into waiting for its satisfaction by repeated thoughts of hers. It was a game, a bet I made with myself. The most my imaginary Sara ever made it to before I lost my self-control was four. And secretly, I vowed to myself that if my imaginings ever became reality, I would do my damndest to beat the record in my mind with the pleasure I actually gave her, if it was physically possible.

I am pleased with myself at the moment. I am already one orgasm closer to my goal. But Sara has flown at me in a way I don't think I ever even imagined possible, all lips and tongue and roving hands, and our clothes are on the floor. My single conscious thought before her warm, silky fingers wrap around my cock is: better here than the hallway.

I know I should have my eyes slammed shut and be moaning her name, but I am too caught up in watching the expression on her face as she slides her hand over my erection, slowly and almost too gently. I arch against her, trying to drive her speed, trying to create more friction, but she smiles at me wantonly and continues her maddening pace. I find myself lost in that smile, full of passion and desire and just a hint of danger, but I catch at her wrist anyway, giving her a faint smile of my own.

"Don't like it?" she purrs, her other hand slipping down to trail her nails lightly up the inside of my thigh. I groan and release her wrist.

"You'll make me lose my bet," I warn her, and she out-and-out grins at me.

"Isn't that the whole point?"

"The bet's against _myself_, not you," I growl, bending to nip at her earlobe. She replies breathily:

"You should really tell me more about this bet."

"You already know what it is," I remind her, drawing gently away from her caressing hands and pushing her flat against the couch. Her eyes widen slightly as I press my hands against the inside of her thighs, pushing them apart, one draped off the edge of the cushion, one bent and flat against the back. I let my breath wash, warm and sweet, over her center, and she arches just a little toward my mouth.

"Why'd you make it?" she pants out. I scowl and purse my lips to follow the warm breath with cool, and watch her squirm. If she can still form complete, coherent sentences, I am clearly not doing my job right. A stray thought crosses my brain—_this is a whole new approach to breakfast_—and I almost laugh aloud.

"I made it," I tell her, my eyes locked to her as I press my lips to the inside of her left thigh, "as a distraction." I let my tongue trail up along soft, pale skin until my mouth is hovering over her center, and she is fighting every instinct she has to press herself against my mouth. I'm not a sadistic man, or an arrogant one. But the baser parts of me want to watch Sara arch herself wantonly toward me, to succumb and admit her desire for me in a very primal way, even though I know she's been doing it subtly and seriously for years.

"From what?" she moans, giving in and canting her body toward me, allowing my lips to brush against her lightly. Just one intoxicating moment and I am the one giving in, pressing my mouth to her and using my lips and tongue—and very gently, my teeth—in every way I've ever learned to, in an attempt to bring her pleasure. The taste of her is distracting, dizzying. I hold her thighs with my hands, noting the contrast of my darker skin against the ivory of her own, and gaze up at her as I pleasure her with my mouth, reveling in the flutter of her long lashes, the parting of her lips as she moans, the flush descending from her cheekbones and spreading, like the opening petals of a rose, across the lightly freckled skin of her chest.

It does not take very long to bring her to the edge of orgasm once more. We are both hovering on the brink of madness from the final consummation of this very long, complicated dance. As I flick my tongue over her clit one final time and watch her come apart above me, I finally answer her question, groaning against her, "From all my thoughts of you." The vibrations make her cry out my name, and I feel the tension and trembling in her thighs as her fingers tighten in my hair. When her climax finally ebbs, I slowly kiss my way up her stomach until my lips are hovering between her breasts. Her eyes flutter open, dark and a bit hazy, and I smile.

"Two."

* * *

TBC...


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